


Venus in Retrograde

by missflowerthief



Category: Dragalia Lost (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23836879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missflowerthief/pseuds/missflowerthief
Summary: If there's one thing Vice wants, it's to be honest. Love comes easily, words don't; and facing the sun is difficult when you've lived your whole life in the shadows.Luckily, Chitose is a very patient man, and it helps that Vice isn't nearly as sneaky as he thinks he is.
Relationships: Chitose/Vice (Dragalia Lost)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 21





	1. Sun Struck

Looming over a pot, Vice lifts a piece of carrot from the water to his mouth, tasting to make sure it’s been properly boiled. It’s crunchy and sweet on the inside, without the mushy texture caused by excessive heat and time. After a quick coating, they aren’t as pretty as they could in their brown, veil-like glaze, but underseasoning food is a sin. Burning food would be doubly so, he thinks, as he lifts a hand over the pan to check if the temperature is right before tossing them in, dozens of flower-shaped chunks blooming into a meadow of orange.  
  
Some oil pops onto his hand.  
  
He clicks his tongue, not because it hurts—his arms have been cut and burned too many times for him to feel more than a prick—but because the fire is too hot or the oil is cheap, and the glaze would probably attempt to meld itself to the iron.   
  
Vice, for all his expertise, laments the fact he can’t control fire mana, and most mana in the first place, because that would be an easy solution for this. Instead, he has to focus on tweaking the wood flame and the various metal plates above it.  
  
Usually it wouldn’t have been a problem. Like anyone who's worked in a kitchen, he’d dealt with finicky equipment before.  
  
Indeed, the true problem lay with his mind, which had been in disarray the entire morning, and further than that, the entirety of the night before. While cooking, he'd mostly kept those thoughts—of sunny laughter, and his favorite shade of pink—at bay, keeping his sanity by going through the motions of technicalities: two cups of this here, half-a-centimeter slices there, the ways to properly debone a chicken without cracking the pieces into a million throat-hostile shards (a certain songstress among others really could not cook). Still, counting tablespoons could only do so much.  
  
With the fire burning just a tad too hot, like fevered cheeks and drum-beat hearts, Vice’s runaway mind instantly conjures a certain magic-user who could surely solve his problems if he were there with him.  
  
The pan sputters.  
  
Shaking the thought away, Vice continues sauteing and then checks on the rice pot boiling on the other side. Their usual cookware wasn’t made for rice, so he had to borrow one. Though he was missing some ideal ingredients, it was his hope that he could emulate the taste of home, even if it wasn't his own.  
  
A distant, familiar bell tolls, proclaiming noon in twelve drawling chimes, each ring echoing so that the sounds faintly overlapped at their edges. That meant it wasn’t long before they were to meet.  
  
His chest sputters, too.  
  
Like true professionals, his hands ignore the errant trembling of his body as they lift various pots and pans from the fires to the assembling station: the heat-resistant counter that Cleo herself had enchanted.  
  
As he prepares the boxes, Vice reflects that he would have never imagined this scenario just a year or two prior. Here he was, a famed assassin with the new title of kitchen jockey, donning a gingham apron while he cooked a cutesy meal for a cutesy man using ridiculously expensive cookware. Of course, with the savings he'd accumulated, he could have afforded his own... only, a killer for hire couldn’t settle down. To keep up a reputation and income, they had to keep moving to find new clients and new marks. Travelling also helped deter any amateur avengers—the main occupational hazard aside from failing a hit, being captured, and getting readied for the executioner's block. 

So Vice _could_ have bought his own equipment, he just wouldn’t have had anywhere to put it. In a way, the lifestyle also meant that he bought very few things that couldn't be used once and been done with. Disguises, for one; and food, for another. Although, if he’d learned of the joy of a personal cast iron skillet earlier in life, he would have gladly lugged around a few extra pounds.  
  
One of the rare few things he’d kept since youth is his scarf, which he tells people is torn around the edges from various close-calls that he’d fought his way out of. The real reason it’s so raggedy is because a young Vice had bought it back when he still expected himself to grow over six feet tall. Since he stopped growing basically immediately after, the fabric dragged over the ground unless he coiled it endlessly around his neck. For some reason, like laziness or complacence, his eventual reputation or an unwitting fondness, he’d never gotten rid of it. Nowadays, the dark shroud was almost a part of him, enveloping and encapsulating him like a living memory. 

Today, however, he’s in casual wear.  
  
On his current mission, the main differences from his past jobs are his target—a retainer instead of a liege; and his purpose—to impress instead of to kill.

Yet, like the days where he needed to change himself, becoming someone else by showcasing unearned qualifications and pieces of others that he'd picked up in disjointed snapshots, Vice couldn’t shake the need for a persona. If his deceptions were revealed back then he would’ve died; and without at least a minimal level of facade to protect the unanticipated fragility of his newfound emotions, he would definitely die today. Pomp and posture was his one defense, even though he truly just wanted to be honest for once in his goddamned life.  
  
Deceit is an odd thing, because by definition it’s always true in the moment, at least for someone.

Yesterday, for example, Vice had claimed that the only reason he invited his mark to eat together was to practice making Hinomoto-style cuisine. He wondered if the other could tell he was furiously skirting around the word “date,” or anything that would belie all the words he wanted to say.  
  
“I’m getting a little rusty,” he’d said, throwing a knife into the bullseye of a target, “it’s practice.”

By repeating it was “just practice” enough, Vice could perhaps create reality from conception, words solidifying in the air like frost magic on the lake just outside the gates. He had practiced such cuisine _and_ such lies before, enough to do so with a steady gaze. Sometimes he was so convincing that he could even trick himself.   
  
“Sure,” the other had replied, voice lilting, “It’s a date!”  
  
The next knife Vice threw flopped into empty air and fizzled onto dirt, bereft of momentum.  
  
He grunted out a time and a place (prior research had told him when the other would be free), then quickly gathered his knives and scaled the castle wall to escape.  
  
Success.  
  
Consequently, since he was too prideful to admit it was lunch for two, he decided to make something less fancy than his original plans, and also to make about twenty other servings for the sake of plausible deniability.  
  
With all the dishes and containers gathered in one place, Vice scoops precise clumps of steaming rice into the largest compartments, rounds them out with the paddle, and gently sprinkles on the dried seasoning. Next come salad greens, mainly for color and volume, the meat, and the other vegetables. Potatoes, the supporting actors, go underneath since they aren’t as picturesque. The meadow of carrot flowers is transferred from the black pan to lacquered crimson squares. Some boxes have tomatoes, amounts varying by the taste of the recipients. Slightly salty, spiraling eggs fill in the gaps. A relatively simple bento, completed.  
  
As he mentally pats himself on the back, the words, “I’m done—!” don't even finish leaving his mouth before two blurs drop from the ceiling.  
  
Jurota wordlessly gives him a thumbs up. 

Aoi lets out a squeal and raves about how cute the arrangements are.   
  
Both of them set aside their personal boxes (payment for helping to facilitate this half-farce) before beginning to gather the rest. As they set out to deliver them to the mess hall and other various locations, they wish Vice luck. Embarrassed by their knowing, prodding grins, and their hands on his shoulders pressing him forward gently, he replies a slightly resentful but otherwise grateful, “thank you.”  
  
But when they leave—he makes sure they’re out of the room and not hiding in the rafters—he smiles at the unexpected luxury of friendship.  
  
Wrapping two special boxes in ornate cloth, Vice then steels himself, and heads out to the field where the sunflowers grow. 

He finds him sitting on a blanket in the shade, staring into the waving sea of yellow, himself a tapestry in teal, white, gold. The sun catches his headgear through a small gap in the leaves above, making it sparkle dazzlingly.  
  
When the man notices Vice’s presence, he turns his head, pink curls dancing in the light breeze, the coin-sized sparkle still blinding, and an ethereal humor shaping his rose-tinted lips into a smile. Systolic pressure never stood a chance.  
  
On the cusp of a giggle, his lunch partner states, “you’re early.” Both of them are, but Vice doesn't say that out loud. The insinuation would be too much for him.

As casually as possible, Vice takes a seat beside the man, fingers brushing against the silky fabric of his sleeve. The other seemed to always be wearing complicated clothing; Vice couldn’t fathom how long it must take to put together a proper kimono every morning, even on off-days. Then again, the man before him technically didn’t have off-days; most of his time was spent in service to his lady and his country, and he took the duty of ambassadorship seriously. That's one of the reasons why he would never let himself look sloppy, especially in public. Despite having never set foot in Hinomoto, Vice thought of how it might be a wonderful place to have made someone so sincere.  
  
It's after a beat of silence that he remembers he's in the middle of a conversation, and not here solely to take in the sight of flutter-bright eyes. Finally he responds, "I finished early."   
  
The near-giggle he'd been greeted with becomes real laughter at this point, bubbling into the air like his own personal symphony—enthralling, if somewhat confusing. Keeping himself level, Vice asks, “what’s so funny?”

Chitose stifles the glorious sound of his laughter and replaces it with the equally wonderful sound of his speech:  
  
“You forgot to take off your apron.”  
  
Vice pretends he is okay, but really he is dying inside.  
  
_Operation: Confession_ starts off shaky. With one casualty down and others to come, he knew instinctively that this would be his deadliest mission to date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or technically, his deadliest mission: to date.
> 
> Thanks for reading! This is the first fic I've written in a while so I hope it was good.
> 
> Chapter 2 will be in Chitose's pov


	2. Moon Blind

In Hinomoto, cats are some of the most beloved, most revered creatures in the land—second, perhaps, only to dragons. 

Though Chitose is a loyal retainer of the Mouse Clan, he is also a scholar of all things adorable. To deny the felicity found in a cat’s meow or it’s soft, springy paws (beans are, after all, a wonderful source of sustenance) would be to deny his own nature. He had long since realized, even before the reconciliation of Daikokuten’s loyalty and Ebisu’s age-old enmity, that cat and mouse _could_ live together in peace, regardless of consequence or judgment.

Now, one might think that the popularity of cats lies solely in their small, jelly-like shapelessness—made seemingly more solid in the illusion of exterior fluff—but a true scholar knows there’s much more to consider than what meets the eye. It had taken Chitose several weeks to come up with his hypothesis, and more still to determine its veracity, but the conclusion he’d arrived at is that cats are so widely loved, in part, because they are interpreted as some of the rudest animals on the planet.

Some attribute a cat’s standoffishness to intelligence, stating that they avoid humans because they instinctively sense hostility: the theory that all men are enemies until proven otherwise.

Others assert it is their relative weakness, and by association a cautious fear, that drives them to scratch and hiss at the proffered hand; they, with their thin, darling bones, and the sadness of hearts that beat slower at the notion of tragedy.

Others, still, believe they are just rude little beasts for the sake of being rude itself. The following anecdotal evidence was provided by the estate's gardener, who wished to remain anonymous: "My (38m) cat (6m) likes to look me straight in the eye when he pushes my cups off the table. He does this at least twice a month. I'm replacing everything with wood." Pawsitively terrible.

Of course every cat is different, and many are even friendly from the start, but the perception building these theories is that cats experience disdain before any other possible emotion, and sometimes don’t move beyond that phase.

And yet, it is the contradiction that makes them ever more lovable. It may take time to befriend cats with their pickiness of humans, but once they do trust you, it feels absolutely _earned_ : There, reflected back in the wide irises of a creature a fraction of your size, is infallible love.

Back home, such a cat used to visit the temple near Lady Mitsuhide’s abode. 

Chitose had seen it slink by before, creeping at the edge of his vision on the perimeter of the temple grounds. Never had he seen it walk on the pavement.

It seemed to abhor the man-made stone.

Even though the poor thing was starving—ribs jutting, four-legged emaciation—it wouldn’t approach the pile of offerings Chitose left until he retreated. The distance between them was one that could be crossed in the span of a sigh, neither far nor near. 

Chitose wondered if he could slide closer while it was preoccupied. Watching the creature as it devoured bite after bite in a frenzied hunger, he was seized with the idea of taking it home. Perhaps it sensed his determined gaze (or his thoughts), because the cat turned toward his direction, wide eyes nearly glowing in broad daylight. The stiff-bodied moment continued for what felt like eternity, silent yet restless, taut like a string before its breaking point. When time finally managed to resume control on the world, the cat was already leaping in the other direction, leaving behind a meager pile of shredded fish and Chitose’s disappointment.

Rejection like this was rare for him.

He began to take his afternoon walks past the back of the shrine.

Each day Chitose brought two dishes: one the elaborate porcelain bowl that was made to be set in the temple halls (as per the old tradition), and the other a plain wooden plate for the grass (as per his new tradition). If the cat was nearby, it would come and go quickly, and Chitose would collect the dish and go home. If not, he would return the next day with another unassuming plate to replace the one left there overnight.

Few people visited the temple on a regular day, save for those who tended the grounds. It was quiet, dwarfed in the greenery around it that seemed to buffer out all sounds except for bird calls, which rang out above the treetops. That was the reason, Chitose supposed, that the cat had settled nearby. 

The space beyond the grounds became forest the further one traveled, gnarled and ancient, growing as wild as the temple stood in its order. Legends state that it is exactly this balance between nature and mankind that allows the shrine to house the old deities, as well as the new that are constantly being born. 

A space between worlds. 

The link that governs the cycles. 

The cat was, of course, just a regular cat and not a god. Yet sometimes, if Chitose arrived early and waited, he would see it slink out from the trees like a small eclipse, a prideful creature darker than night which, in its celerity, dared to rebel against the law of celestial bodies and invoke the wrath of the sun. 

So in retrospect, it was a little bit like a god—even though it's only worshipper was a young man barely cognizant of the world outside of a single clan.

Days of this affair turned to weeks, and weeks to months.

The cat, for all its weariness, slowly let Chitose encroach upon its space, until it allowed him to watch from up close, just out of the fingertip’s reach—the shortest possible span of a sigh. It was a distance mapped out in bite marks and weary avoidance whenever he came too close, too soon, too eagerly.

One day he’d arrived to see the cat reclining on an old stump, as if waiting for him. It lazily swung its tail back and forth, forward and backward. As usual, Chitose skipped closer and greeted, “hello fellow cutie!”

He unwrapped the day’s lunch and narrated its contents in his best impression of an announcer.

The cat was not impressed, but did meow in response to humor him (“ _11/10!_ ” Chitose translated for himself in his best cat voice). As he resumed describing the meal, the lazing feline got up at the familiar word “chicken,” and brushed lightly against his leg as it scurried to the food dish. Though it was just a tap, it was the first time he had touched it (or technically, that it had touched him). The careful six-legged dance of avoidance they’d orchestrated had been carelessly broken on what seemed like a whim, but he knew from three month’s worth of precision, the three months of tangoing around dirt, grass, leaves, and branches, that it wasn’t. The warmth from its body was staggering, and lasted merely a second.

Chitose might have cried a little that day, and he had definitely gushed about it for hours to a sleeping Mitsuhide (she had gotten tired of hearing him talk while she was awake and forbade him from the topic until she wasn’t).

From that day on, the cat stopped scratching whenever he tried to run a hand down its back, stroke its chin, pet its fuzzy little head—except for when he went for the stomach. Proof was a summer yukata, torn to shreds. 

One day, during the season when the leaves had already fallen from their forlorn branches (a separation of necessity over choice), and the sun would rush to its death over the horizon, Chitose arrived late to the pond.

Those days the attendant had been busy helping his Lady weed out traitors in the estate. The tiring part was not the actual deduction and apprehending of said traitors—his reluctantly capable Lady could identify most of them literally without lifting a finger—but the rearrangement of managerial documents, the hiring and training of new staff, and sometimes even grueling menial work. Inter-Clan turbulence meant even Mitsuhide couldn’t rest as much as she wanted to, and much of her less important work fell to Chitose to handle. It was a time when he was needed most and he took pride in his own competence, but he was worn, overworked, and on the verge of physically passing out from the endless arrangement of duties that wouldn’t be settled until they could finally deal with the leader holding the strings.

Slack armed and exhausted, he rested on a nearby stone. The hand that had been holding a portion of dinner, wrapped in cloth so he could dangle it from one arm instead of lifting with two, fell against his lap.

His heavy eyes watched the area for movement. He listened for the gentle shifting of foliage. Then he watched his own breath turn to mist and dissipate.

 _Not here_ , he’d thought, angry at himself for not being able to come earlier. Even so, he unwrapped his offering and bent to place it on the ground next to him. A firefly hovered over from the pond, and vanished into the darkness.

As the light was extinguished, more took its place. Chitose couldn’t stop his exclamation when he found himself staring at two amber marbles suspended in air: a small “Oh!” that pierced into the night and did not return.

The amber eyes, surely attached to the familiar cat, blinked and disappeared completely against the dark soil. Chitose blinked in turn, and when he re-opened his eyes, he felt as if the cat’s outline could be traced with the moonlight. The hand he’d left outstretched was stroked by a cat-shaped void, etched out in a fuzzy white halation.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Chitose asked, stroking her chin and feeling the purr stumble up her throat. No meow, though. Figures she would give a non-answer.

Instead, she leapt onto his lap, and settled there contently slack and oh-so warm. With his winter wear and muffler, Chitose hadn’t even realized he’d been cold, so the presence of heat struck without warning.

“Stay,” she insisted in a cat kinda way, making sure the cold wouldn’t return by claiming his lap as her own.

“Okay,” he replied in a Chitose kinda way, until his body protested for sleep and the constellations became vague in the night sky.

She burrowed against his arms in response.

That was the day that she allowed him to carry her home, and to give her a name. In amber eyes he saw his own love refracting, magnified to an intensity he hadn’t known could exist.

It became obvious to him, then, that cats were not rude at all. Their standoffishness, falsely interpreted through human minds as hatred, was also a misguided reflection that lacked the confidence of a known language. What it was, really, was only a measure to prevent every bit of their love from leaking out all at once. He knew, as he carried his cat with his tired, trying arms, that once they started to love it was near impossible for them to stop, and so their only defense was to begin when they finally knew they were loved in turn.

Gazing at the sunflowers, each resembling a dark eclipse blotting out a bright star in miniature, Chitose smiles at the cherished memory of his lovely little god.

It’s perfect timing that Vice appears during this moment of nostalgia, drenched in sunlight and holding lunch boxes wrapped in ornate cloth. He walks so silently that Chitose is almost surprised when he appears out of thin air.

Since he’s used to it, he instead takes in the sight of Vice’s stiff gait and pink apron—which Chitose had given to him last White Day as a return gift for “friendship” chocolate.

He remembers that Vice had told him he had “just happened” to bake several chocolate cakes. In fact, he made “too many” of things often, usually “as practice” or because he “had ingredients that were about to expire.” The ribbon-bound hair pin on top was also something he had “received during shopping.”

Technically that second part was true.

The vendor did have to hand it over, thus he did receive it… but for a hefty amount of rupies in exchange.

Vice stands there awkwardly, unsure whether to fold his arms indignantly or to let them remain at his sides. He seems to be waiting for acknowledgment, or getting ready to bolt at the first sign of movement.

“You’re early.” Chitose provides helpfully, watching a bit of tension ease from his shoulders. Still rather like a statue, the other man takes a seat next to him. His sharp eyes drift from Chitose’s arms to his face, and stay there entranced. Chitose stares back at the permanently furrowed brow, runs his gaze up the dark spiky locks of hair and back down to the bright tattoo that attempts to win dominance over peach-tinged cheeks. It fails. From the sweat on his forehead, he can tell Vice ran here.

Mentally, Chitose sighs, because the man does not realize how obvious he is. Brusque as he wants to appear, Vice is both a soft touch as a person and a soft touch away from melting into a glob of putty, or slime, or whatever it is that squishums are made of.

To the unobservant eye that hasn’t spent time studying his habits, the man furrows his brows out of contempt, gives blunt answers out of irritation, and brags about his occupation out of vanity.

Chitose had once thought so too, back when he ironically didn’t look past his appearance. They’d known each other before, through small interactions, bouts of hearsay in the halidom halls and such; but until that fateful day at the marketplace, when Vice had helped him rescue a young damsel-in-distress and unwittingly acted the part of a prince in… err… no shining armor really, just a lot of black cloth, Chitose hadn’t known that he could be so—

“I finished early,” Vice blurts out, holding back an incoming flood of red in his face, but forgetting to control as far as the unhooded ears.

— _Adorable,_ Chitose can’t help but think, heart shot clean.

He liked to think they had fallen for each other that day, like a fairy tale; but if they did, the truth is that neither had realized their feelings until weeks later. Heck, Chitose hadn’t even known until after Vice did. That’s why instead of ending cleanly in a kiss (well, he’d never actually kiss on the first mission), he began to furiously think of ways to thank his partner-in-crime (in law?), and Vice began to seek out reasons for why his heart rate soared at the sight of the color pink.

For the latter’s concerns:

Cleo prescribed healing magic.

Aeleen prescribed rest and plenty of water.

Sylas prescribed calming herbs.

Zardin said he was dying, and to put on a face mask for his dry skin. 

Pipple Pippled.

The only one who had gotten it right, and who cued Chitose in soon after, leaving him to the destructive epiphany that they were in a mutually requited unrequited crush (love!), was Malora. Well, Philia had gotten it right first, but she had a strict rule not to interfere with other’s matters unless it was dire.

In the face of this discovery and the shrinking distance between them, Chitose identified all of the fronts Vice put up and tore them to pieces.

With a bit of observation, the deep furrow in Vice’s brow became a sign of pensive thought, because he always tried to act confident even in a time of panic. The curt answers were to hide embarrassment, because he had little experience with normal conversations, let alone words of affection. His obsession with being an assassin? There were most likely other reasons involved, but at least one was the desire to be useful, and therefore wanted—to be loved, if only for utility; Chitose thought so because he, too, had been there before.

Few others knew these things. On one hand, he was a little bit happy that Vice wasn’t that popular, because it meant he could monopolize his time. On the other hand, he wondered why someone so kind—someone who found it in himself to leave one life of blood to serve a purpose in another (even when it cut so deeply), who secretly found joy in the antics of gluttonous children, and who put his all into any request no matter how whimsical—could be underappreciated when he was _so utterly loveable._

Oh, Chitose was in deep.

Here they were, two twitterpated souls intertwined, like the orbit of the moon around the Earth, the Earth around the Sun, the billions of bodies in the universe wrapped in some version of a planetary embrace, and Vice was _still_ in denial of all the signs. Chitose had asked him on forty-one dates this year alone, and it was only summer.

If he had to see one more of Vice’s wistful glances when he thought he wasn’t looking, Chitose felt like he was going to scream. Or maybe kiss him. Or scream while he kissed him. It would be awkward, but he’d make it work, somehow.

In actuality he wouldn’t, because he knew that for all his bravado in facing death, Vice was afraid to open himself up; the metaphorical point of intimacy where one might rip open their chest, bare the breathing heart, leave themselves to the judgment of another that didn’t necessarily beat in turn.

And that was normal. It was the same for himself.

The main difference is that Chitose had experienced enough doubting himself and all he stood for, and in his weakest moments found who held him precious, to cast that self-hatred away and believe that he was worthy of all that love. Until he came to the halidom, Vice had been, for the most part, alone. 

So Chitose would take it slow, again deciphering the ways of a creature desperately yearning for affection, and even more desperately afraid of the vulnerability that comes with those feelings. The more time he spent, the more things he would find to love, and he would compile the evidence so that it would be irrefutable. He would give Vice all the time he needed, until he finally believed he, too, deserved a love with no pretenses.

The slight ridiculousness of the situation isn’t lost on Chitose, and he can’t help but laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Vice asks, mouth curling into a frown.

And though Chitose decided he would be patient, another thing Vice deserved was _at least_ a minimal amount of teasing. He’d made Chitose wait long enough before asking him out on a date (though he refused to call it that) for the first time.

So he replies, “you forgot to take off your apron,” and waits for Vice to implode. He does, predictably.

A million excuses—none of which he actually needs, because to Chitose nothing matters except the fact they’re here together—can be seen flashing through his eyes. He’s about to settle for an ambiguous grunting noise, given away by his scrunched up nose, when Chitose beats him to the punch. As they say, strike while the iron (or in this case, Vice’s face) is hot.

“I think it’s cute,” he says, placing a hand on Vice’s specifically so he can’t run.

“—You should wear it for me more often.” 

_Ah._

Vice chokes on nothing, and Chitose also freezes, because that wasn’t what he meant to say. He was trying for something more sentimental, like “thanks for using the gift I got you,” or, “I wanted to see you as soon as possible, too.” The hand under his twitches.

_Quick, change the subject._

“S-So, what did you make for lunch?”

_Nice going, me!_

“...Rice.”  
  
Chitose isn’t sure how to respond to that.

Now both of them are embarrassed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is really just catboy Vice propaganda


	3. Day Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kept adding more than I thought I would, so I split my last chapter in half and then started adding even more. There will possibly also be an extra since 4 is unlucky and I wanna bless these two.
> 
> Unrelated to this fic, tomorrow I will be setting up my ko-fi and opening fic commissions if anyone is interested, though this is my only recent creative writing sample. All proceeds will go towards various groups dedicated to supporting the BLM movement. You can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/flowerthief_art)

The hand on his is soft, even through the proudly-formed calluses at the base of each finger. Aside from physically soft, it is the grip that is warm and reassuring; an embrace in each fingertip, the affection marked out in palm lines that foretold happiness.  
  
Vice shifts slightly. He still has his apron on and can’t very well take it off with a hand held prisoner, though he’d keep it on longer if it meant staying like this.  
  
“You should wear it for me more often,” Chitose had remarked, unaware of how the tangential domesticity of the notion would render Vice breathless. What a marvel it would be, to wake up early in the morning and stare at his still-sleeping lover before making breakfast. To share the intimate normalcy of an egg on toast or the words “good morning.” To imagine days that blurred together, but were no less wonderful in their repetition because that would mean the world was at peace—the promise of routine, and of every day.  
  
“S-So, what did you make for lunch?” Chitose interrupts the daydream, embarrassed to imply favors that would be gladly granted. Or perhaps he, too, heard the resemblance to a proposal.  
  
Most muses inspired their poets, but he, in a casual comment, could steal away the senses and suffuse the lips with soundless yearnings. Softened by such implications, Vice forgets how to speak.  
  
He replies: one word to the best of his abilities. If he were eloquent, maybe he could have said more, but since Vice was never really a poet in the first place, only the rustling sunflowers cut through the silence.  
  
With nothing else to quell the awkwardness, he reaches for the still-warm package at his side and places it in front of him. “See for yourself,” the motion is meant to convey.

“Can I open it?” Chitose asks, though he already knows the answer is yes before Vice nods in assent. Reluctantly, he separates their hands to untie the cloth. The knot is gently unraveled and pulled apart, revealing three boxes stacked one atop another.

He’s handed the first while Vice takes the second for himself, leaving the third for later. Chitose recognizes it as a dessert box, because he was the one who commissioned it. Part of the reason why was because he heard Vice wanted to start baking more (Aoi was his double agent), and the other part was that he needed something to return for White Day. Just an apron wasn’t enough, so Chitose had run around asking for help in crafting, painting, and even enchanting the container to hold a constant temperature. The talented artisans of the Halidom had done a beautiful job with his specifications, and the result was a sturdy black box with white morning glories on each face. Chitose had personally etched the name of its owner into the bottom, and marked it with a heart. 

“Tell me what you think of it.” 

Chitose lifts the lid, and the smell of fresh rice hits him first. The steam still wafts off of each grain, forming wisps in the shade of the tree. He knew that Vice was following recipes from Hinomoto and that he’d done so in the past, but he’s still surprised.  
  
Most Alberian rice was meant to be a grainy texture, and sometimes spiced or seasoned, or even creamed. It wasn’t bad, but it was nothing like the meals served back in Mitsuhide’s abode. Here it was made to scatter instead of clump, much too dry to eat with chopsticks—though most of the cutlery in the mess hall was silverware anyway.  
  
The smell of the chicken hits him next, and makes his stomach growl.

Vice, ever-prepared, pulls some chopsticks out from Amaterasu-knows-where and hands him a set. Chitose says his thanks and pre-meal rituals, but he’s distracted by the way Vice clumsily holds his chopsticks and lifts a bite to his mouth. Evidently he’s a bit unpracticed, but it makes sense considering he’d spent the majority of his life eating with spoons and forks, or his bare hands. To his merit, he succeeds about halfway, catching the rest with the box and giving Chitose a sullen glare to threaten against teasing.  
  
Giggling just in his head, Chitose dispenses some tips on how to grip them properly. “Though,” he points out, tempted to use this as an excuse to continue holding hands, “lots of people hold chopsticks differently. It’s more a matter of repetition.”  
  
As long as Vice wasn’t using them as skewers, he’d get it with a bit more practice—he even says as much, a bit disgruntled from the fact he hasn’t already perfected it. Chitose suggests he tries using them more while cooking.

Then he turns his focus to his own meal while it’s still warm, since it’d be rude to let it sit. 

His first review, before even digging in, is, “it’s cute”—referring to the carrots cut into the shape of flowers, and placed deliberately over the potatoes like blooming shrubs. Maybe if he pushed for it another time, he could get Vice to shape them like mice, or they could even cook together and he could do it himself.  
  
Vice, shy of the fact that his aesthetic sense is mainly used on food (though that was another thing Chitose found endearing about him), but proud that it turned out well, mumbles a “thanks.”

He beams.

“What’s in this sauce?” Chitose asks next, placing a carrot on his tongue and letting the sweet and salty flavor linger. He could taste something like mirin, but the salty component was different than what he was used to.

“The kitchen ran out of what I was planning to use, so I improvised with some Alberian sauces,” Vice informs him. He looks uncharacteristically humble as he follows with, “sorry that it’s, you know... not perfect.”

Chitose smiles at that, because even if it’s not exactly the same, he can taste the meticulous care in each bite. These ingredients were hard to find here, and the fact he even got it this close shows he had properly researched the methods. Above all, the thing that moves Chitose’s heart the most is that Vice made this because he’d been feeling a bit homesick. This was a small reminder that he now had two homes: one in Hinomoto, and another here, with someone who wanted him to feel welcome and so cherished that it could be felt through every action.   
  
So shaking his head at Vice’s apology, Chitose replies, “I don’t need perfect. I love it the way it is.”

The look he receives in turn makes his heart race. A rare smile—not a smirk—with the subtlest of upturned lips. It’s a little embarrassing when Vice proceeds to wipe a stray grain of rice off his cheek, but he can live with it because he also gets to hear him laugh.

They spend the next hour eating slowly, Chitose occasionally stopping (sometimes with his mouth full) to ask a question and Vice doing the same to answer. When they run out of food topics, they ask each other about their days instead. 

Since Chitose can’t tell him how long he spent choosing an outfit, and that he barely slept cause he was so excited, he tells Vice about how his morning mission went instead—not a formal mission, but a personal one. It’d been weeks since he had a proper day off for something like this, and he deserved it!  
  
Chitose, as the ambassador of all things cute, had recently been studying Alberian fashion trends to incorporate into Hinomotoan styles. His home country was strict about foreign ideas, but the Mouse Clan had stopped being conventional the day Mitsuhide became its leader. Like himself, it could very well be the universality of cute clothes—commodities, and therefore trade—that bridged the gap.

While he was learning six new ways to pattern a skirt, Vice spent his time in the kitchen.  
  
Mornings weren’t entirely his repertoire, so his solution was simple (and wishful): He’d attempted to sleep as early as possible the night before. Like every human being in existence before him, Vice fails this, but his backup plan of sleeping in the closet closest to the chicken coop was a brilliant success. Though this meant he got very little sleep, he did wake up on time to finish all of two dozen hand-arranged lunches, and dessert. 

Feeling the repercussions of his own sleepless night, Chitose fights back a weak yawn as Vice begins to recount the day. 

Circumstances aside, the biggest event that occurred during this time was him being visited by child extortionists. To be clear, they were not extortionists that targeted children, but ones who _were_ children. And they were crafty—those of them that knew algebra put together the schedules of the kitchen leads. They would raid whenever they figured Cleo, their strongest opposition, was away doing other tasks.

This had been an ongoing occurrence ever since the so-called “Plunder Pals” took off, growing from a seasonal enterprise to a veritable year-round gang of nearly twenty members. Admittedly, Vice had trouble saying no, making him one of the weak links they could take advantage of. It didn’t help that they completely called his bluffs of danger—not because he wasn’t threatening, but because they’d long since learned he’d never do anything to them. He lamented that he’d become a softie… though at least Maribelle traded him a cookie.

“She told me she’d give me the recipe if I helped her do history homework.” 

Chitose nods. He recalls she used to live in the forest, where history wasn’t a big concern. “Will you?”

Vice takes a moment to ponder. “...It was a really good cookie.”

“So what did they wheedle out of you?” Chitose laughs as he lids his now-empty box. 

“They didn’t ‘wheedle it out of me,’ I uh, gave it to them because I’m generous.” 

Deciding not to retort, Chitose glances at the unforgotten third box curiously. Vice places it between them and opens it. Unfortunately, the children got more out of him than he thought—he really shouldn’t have offered more to the girl with the pet mouse, whose stomach was surprisingly bottomless. That’s why there’s only eight pieces instead of an even formation of nine. 

Taking in the colors instead of the numbers, Chitose gasps softly. “Sakuramochi?”  
  
Spring had passed long ago, but Vice decided to make them anyway. Many of their residents had returned to Hinomoto for the beginning of the sakura viewing season, Chitose included. Since they ended up coming back before the peak of the festivities, he thought it wouldn’t be a bad idea.  
  
Vice couldn’t transplant a whole orchard of cherry blossom trees or something crazy like that, but he could at least procure some leaves and red bean paste. 

“Try one,” he says, lifting the box.

Chitose complies, delicately pinching one by the leaf and biting the other side. The bitter and aromatic scent permeates his senses, before being met with the sweet taste of mochi and redbean to balance it out. 

“Sakuramochi,” Chitose says again, but this time in confirmation. He finishes it in a few more bites and grabs another.

“So this is what they’re supposed to taste like, right?” Vice ends up questioning. 

He’d never had anything quite like them before last week, when he’d asked Sazanka to teach it to him. They were good, but the leaf was so salty that he’d almost spit it out. Though she had explained it was supposed to be eaten all together, or that he could even peel off the leaf, he wasn’t sure if he’d made a mistake somewhere and she was just trying to spare his feelings. Once, he heard Sazanka call Botan’s cooking “pretty... good” to her face, but witnesses spotted her elegantly shuffling (running) to the lavatory that night.

Chitose is already grabbing his third piece. “Yeah!” he confirms, cheeks slightly bulging. Rather than a mouse, he looks more like one of the hamsters that like to climb on Daikokuten. 

Finishing it, he asks Vice in turn, “Aren’t you gonna eat any?”  
  
To be honest, Vice wasn’t actually much of a sweets person. He enjoyed them on occasion, but was more enamored with the process of making them than eating them. The main reason he’d started baking so much was that Chitose told him he loved desserts, and somewhere along the way he’d formed the misconception that Vice loved them just as much. Looking at his excited face and the way he planned for them to visit cafes, Vice just didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.  
  
“It’s fine,” he ends up replying, “The extras are so you can take the rest for later. Split them with Mitsuhide.” 

Really, he was content just watching Chitose enjoy them.

“Hmmm, then how about this?” Chitose says with a wink, grabbing one more piece and pulling it in half. Poised like a tiger before it pounces, he positions himself to feed Vice personally.  
  
Checkmate.

Earlier Vice had said he barely taste tested any before the children came.  
  
“Since you didn’t really eat any,” Chitose iterates his thoughts, challenging him to just try and weasel his way out. He looks at Vice from a downward angle, letting his eyelashes flutter cutely a few times. Though it’s a very obvious ploy to distract him from other excuses, it works. Vice doesn’t even consider he could just say he’s full, or that he could make more.

The spellbound fool opens his mouth to say, “okay,” and part way through Chitose presses the piece to his lips, which widen a little in surprise. He has no choice but to properly comply, feeling the sugar-salty taste hit his tongue. A smooth finger light graces his bottom lip lightly before fluttering away to the sound of ruffled fabric.

“Tee hee,” Chitose says, in place of actual laughter. He pops his half into his mouth and chews through a suspiciously smug smile.  
  
Currently, Vice’s jaw is amazingly slack, but he clamps it closed just in time to catch his piece from falling out. He contemplates that he would probably never get used to Chitose being so touchy-feely. Sometimes it felt like he knew Vice was flustered by these types of things and did it on purpose, even though he had never let it show on his face. He sits there chewing mechanically, unaware that Chitose is equally surprised by his own boldness. 

_Maybe it’s time,_ Vice thinks.

The mood seemed right.

The warm air blanketed them even in the shade of the great oak, comfortable but not cloying. Faraway, cicadas and birds chirp in chorus almost like a lullaby. Chitose had enjoyed his food, and the world seemed beautiful.   
  
The bright stalks of sunflowers sway in agreement.  
  
Suddenly nervous, Vice contemplates the best way to say it. He swallows down the last bit of mochi in his mouth, throwing it to the butterflies ransacking his stomach.  
  
But really, what else was there to say? He just needed to get those three words out of his mouth. He’d even rehearsed this because he wasn’t good with words.  
  
_I love you, I love you, I love you._  
  
_I love you._  
  
Three simple words used by the rest of the world. For now he didn’t have any other way to express how he thought he could kill for him, or die for him, and paradoxically, how Chitose made him want to live each day facing himself. He, who lived life without regret or hesitation, without deceit or denial, made Vice want to be honest as well. Chitose made him feel, despite himself, loved. 

So even if his feelings weren’t returned, _“_ I love you” would be the most honest words Vice would ever say.  
  
He turns to him, determined and terrified.  
  
“Chitose—” he starts.

But his words are cut off by an intrusive, badly-timed yawn. His own yawn.

Chitose holds on for a second, but he, too, feels the wave of drowsiness wash over him in the summer heat. His yawn is even louder than Vice’s, and twice as long. It is, in his own standards, majorly uncute; but he hadn’t been able to stop it from leaking out. _How embarrassing..._

“Sorry,” he says, scratching his head nervously, “I actually didn’t get much sleep. But, um, what were you saying?”  
  
All of a sudden, the sleepiness brings attention to the dark circles under his eyes. The color is faint, concealed by a light layer of foundation, but it is most certainly there. Vice remembers that this is the only day Chitose had off this month, because he had denied anything but short breaks due to some recent border skirmishes. Mitsuhide basically had to force him to "chill out for one day". Piled on from stress and restless nights, along with equally restless days, the circles wouldn’t disappear in just one happy afternoon—especially when he would soon return to the toil.

And yet he’d been here, cheerful as always. 

The reason Vice often rejected his invitations was precisely because of this. He knew Chitose had been busy lately—busy with things he just couldn’t be a part of because it wasn’t his place—and he had still taken up his one free day for the sake of his own feelings. He cursed his selfishness. 

“Hmm?” Chitose hums, tilting his head, another yawn on the edge of escape.

Vice looks at his lovely, tired face, at the burdened eyes, the pale cheeks painted red, the eternal smile. The most lovable face in the world.  
  
His feelings could wait, because they would always be there anyway. 

“Do you… want to nap?” Vice ends up saying, wishing he could brush away the exhaustion. 

Chitose can’t deny he does, and he nods as the yawn takes him. It was the perfect weather for a nap, and eating on a warm day always made him a teensy bit sleepy. He stretches once before lowering himself to the cloth, and pats the space next to him.  
  
“Here,” Vice says, taking off his apron and folding it into a makeshift pillow. It isn’t the best, but it’s still better than nothing—or worse, than offering himself. He remembers once when Chitose leaned his head on his shoulder, and teased him about how bony it was. He’d make a terrible pillow.

“Thanks.” Chitose slides it under his head and rearranges himself into a comfortable position.   
  
Vice doesn’t answer. He simply lays next to him, their hands close enough to feel each other’s radiating heat, but not enough to actually touch.  
  
His breath smells of sakuramochi. 

Chitose laughs a bit as his eyes fall closed, a victim of the inevitable touch of sleep, and at that moment he shines like the sun. 

Vice, too, closes his eyes for fear of being blinded. 

How lovely it is, that reality could be more beautiful than dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Or technically, his deadliest mission: to date.
> 
> Thanks for reading! This is the first fic I've written in a while so I hope it was good.
> 
> Chapter 2 will be in Chitose's pov


End file.
